


the mortifying ordeal of being known

by tposeyasuo



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:34:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28057740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tposeyasuo/pseuds/tposeyasuo
Summary: Eivor wants nothing more than to be known and feared across all of England and beyond. Hytham is comfortable spending his life in the shadows.Maybe the truth lies somewhere in the middle.(a series of missing scenes and a vaguely post-canon conclusion)
Relationships: Eivor/Hytham (Assassin's Creed)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 44





	the mortifying ordeal of being known

Eivor is staring.

He knows he is, but he can't help it.

It's not that he hasn't been rejected before – not that this situation could possibly be described as  _ being rejected _ . Hytham had taken one look at him, apparently deemed him unworthy of both attention and the blade he had received from Sigurd, and decided to ignore him until further notice. 

Still, it nags at him. He’s drunken more mead than he should have (a hard feat to do for a Viking) and ignored everyone else in favor of looking at the - Hidden One, as he called himself, who so far has done nothing but stand in the corner with his arms crossed.  _ Why can’t I fall for the easy ones,  _ Eivor thinks to himself. 

God, he hates being rejected.

With a sigh, he takes another large gulp from his drinking horn.

“He’s a sight for sore eyes, isn’t he?” Randvi manifests out of thin air, making him cough and spill his mead all over his hand.

“ - what? Who?” he asks, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. 

Randvi indulges him. “Hytham,” she says, nodding at the man. “All mysterious and brooding. Oh, and handsome of course.”

“You have a husband.” Eivor takes the safe road and another swig from his horn. If he’s not getting laid tonight, he might as well get so drunk that he couldn’t get it up anyway.

“A husband who is currently in a farting contest with Dag,” she says, her voice tinted bitter. “But anyway, it’s not me who is currently undressing this poor man with his eyes.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Eivor mutters. “I’m just making sure he doesn’t do anything funny because he’s jealous that Sigurd gave me this blade.” 

“Yet you knew I was talking about you.” 

“Fuck off.”

Randvi chuckles. “Come on Eivor, it pains me to see you pining away like a blushing Christian virgin. Why don’t you go over there and ask him to bend you over the nearest table?”

_ Because he’s made clear that he doesn’t like me very much. Because he intimates me. Because Sigurd would probably kill me if I manage to ruin this alliance because I couldn’t control my dick. _

He’s about to snap something awfully insulting back at her but thinks better of it. She only wants to help, and this kind of gentle teasing has never managed to rile him up so much before. He swallows hard, trying not to dwell on it too much.

“I’ll go to him,” he finally says. “But not for - the reason you said. I just want to check what he’s up to. He’s too quiet.” 

Randvi pats his shoulder. “Sure you do,” she laughs. With him, not  _ at  _ him, Eivor is sure. 

****

Before he makes his way over he stops at a cask to fill up his horn and grab another cup which he also fills. He might as well make up an excuse and getting Hytham drunk couldn’t hurt either.

Eivor isn’t the most covert person in the world, not by a long shot, and the mead in his veins doesn’t help. Hytham hears him coming from a mile away and looks up, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Maybe not all is lost. (Or maybe, probably, it’s wishful thinking together with the fact that Hytham’s face seems to blur because the smile, if it ever were there, is gone as soon as Eivor can get another clear look.)

With a nod, Eivor shows his cup to the man. “I’ve noticed that you haven’t yet tried Thekla’s mead. I didn’t want to dissuade you so entirely. Here.” 

Hesitantly, Hytham takes the cup without making a motion to drink it or even actually acknowledge it’s existence. There’s an awkward silence, long enough to make Eivor question every life choice that led him to his moment. 

“So, the Hidden Ones?” Eivor blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind. 

“What of it?” Hytham retorts, his fingers caressing the intricate knots covering the cup. Eivor may or may not be hypnotized, but certainly way too drunk for this. 

“Well, they’re - hidden.”  _ Dear Odin, give me strength.  _

Hytham snorts. “That is indeed true, yes. We prefer to do things in the shadow. It has proven beneficial for our members. Although there is a certain charm about the tales your brother likes to tell.” 

Another silence. Hytham still hasn’t drunk even one sip and Eivor feels worse with every minute. His head aches, his stomach rumbles, and the look in Hytham’s eyes make him feel like he’s making a proper fool out of himself just by standing there. 

God, his  _ eyes _ . They don’t leave Eivor’s for even one second. “Your brother told us a lot about you, as well,” Hytham says softly. “You are a... formidable warrior if the tales are true.” 

“All of them,” Eivor blurts out and immediately regrets it. Hytham looks like a cat that ate the canary. 

“I see. Do you want to join the brotherhood?” Hytham asks calmly, finally breaking eye contact to let his eyes drop down to Eivor’s mouth, awaiting his answer. 

I want  _ you _ , Eivor thinks, but it’s both foolish and a terrible reason to join an underground society he knows next to nothing about, for a man he has known for all but 5 minutes. 

He settles for a noncommital grunt instead. Hytham shakes his head, finally acknowledging the drink in his hand. 

“Thank you for the offer, Eivor, but I fear I must refuse. I’m afraid I’m not as good at - drinking as you Norse are.” He hands the cup over to Eivor and their fingers brush together for a tantalizing second. Through the fog of mead that’s clouding his judgment it almost seems voluntary, and for a moment Eivor considers letting the cup drop in favor of taking Hytham’s hand instead.

But he can’t. Styrbjorn and the others might accept his affairs with men, but that doesn’t mean that Hytham would think the same, let alone reciprocate. (Eivor’s not stupid - he’s heard of the attitude towards sodomy in Christian territory. Who knows how much worse it gets the farther south you travel.)

Cup now firmly in hand, the wood creaking under the weight of his fingers clasping around it, he entertains the thought of getting someone -  _ anyone  _ \- in his bed, just to see how Hytham would react.

Probably not at all, Eivor thinks bitterly. 

“It’s - alright,” he says. “I’ll drink it for you.” 

It would be a long night. 


End file.
